


Bend, Break, Breathe

by Demerite



Series: Scent, Sense, Balance [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Actual Conversations About The Future, Alpha!Geralt, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bickering, Biting, Blood, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Knotting, Light Angst, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Nesting, Omega!Jaskier, Possessiveness, Rimming, Scent Kink, Slightly Dubiously Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22544053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demerite/pseuds/Demerite
Summary: Geralt breathes in deeply, considers what he can smell. Realises. Reels back from Jaskier, one hand pressed over his mouth and nose as if that will stifle the Scent."Fuck."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Scent, Sense, Balance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662523
Comments: 59
Kudos: 1590
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> LISTEN I wrote this in like three hours after bingeing the entire series. I haven't read the books or played the games.
> 
> Also if you're worried about the dub-con tag it's just because Jas is already in heat by the time they decide to bone; but like, they talk about it first (I'm just being overly cautious).

There's something wrong with Jaskier.

There's something wrong with Jaskier, and Geralt is at his wit's end trying to work out what. It's certainly not injury or illness, Jaskier is famously vocal about _any _source of discomfort he might encounter, nor is it heartbreak, another topic on which Jaskier will opine at great length, especially if the hurt is fresh. He's too quiet to be composing a song, his lute sits, unplayed, in its case where he carries it on his back, and he's not humming or muttering lyrics just within the range of Geralt's hearing. And he hasn't even complained about the distance they've travelled today, or that they'll be facing yet another night sleeping in the forest tonight, or that it's moving towards winter and is getting cold. He hasn't even complained at Geralt for something Geralt hadn't realised he'd done, or hadn't realised was annoying Jaskier. 

There's something wrong with Jaskier, and Geralt doesn't know what, and it shouldn't make him so many different kinds of uneasy, but it does. He's too quiet, too sullen, but not in a full-blown sulk - those tend to be fraught with grumbling and dramatic sighs. 

He's been almost dawdling, too. More than he usually does, which is saying something about him, considering how generally slow and distractible he can be. But the closer to the next town they get, the more his steps seem to slow, and even Geralt's hints about them maybe having enough coin to spare for a room, perhaps even a bath, have not succeeded in getting him to move any faster. In fact, the promise of civilization seems to have made Jaskier move even _slower, _almost as if he is reluctant. 

So that's out of character, but it's the silence that seems the most out of place to Geralt. There's none of Jaskier's usual incessant commentary of every single thing he sees, no singing, no ceaseless questioning about things Geralt doesn't even want to _think _about, much less talk about. The silence is not unwelcome, but it is strange and worrying. When a talkative man is silent, there are only a few things it could herald, and none of them are good. 

Eventually, Geralt decides he's had enough. 

"We camp here." He decides firmly. 

Roach, hearing the word 'camp', stops before he can even signal her to, and Geralt swings out of the saddle to inspect that area he's inadvertently chosen. It's not a bad campsite, truth be told. The ground is flat, sheltered on one side by trees, and he can hear the low rushing of a stream not too far away. 

Geralt lets Jaskier stew in silence while they make camp. They've been travelling together for quite a while this time around, some months perhaps, and the motions of making camp, finding wood and tinder, building a fire, scavenging what they can to add to their supplies for a meal, and setting up bedrolls comes easily. Usually, Jaskier will talk, or sing, but he remains quiet, barely speaking at all except when he asks Geralt to hand him the flint. 

Geralt knows that he should embrace the silence as he and Jaskier sit and eat by the fire, night starting to fall, but something is off about it. Is Jaskier ill? Cursed? Enchanted? Humans are so much more fragile than Witchers. 

It's that concern that finally spurs Geralt to ask. 

"Jaskier." He starts, looking over to the bard, who is staring pensively into the flames. 

"I'm fine!" Jaskier answers, entirely too quickly. There's a guilty lilt to his tone, which tells Geralt so many things. 

Obviously, Jaskier is lying to him. But Jaskier is lying to him because he's embarrassed, as Jaskier is hardly ever embarrassed. 

"No, you're not." He says. 

"Well of course I'm bloody not!" Jaskier snaps, the anger exploding out of him, but Geralt can see that it's defensive anger. Jaskier feels cornered. Trapped. Why? 

Usually, he's the first to complain when something is wrong, when he's uncomfortable, or really, at any time. What is it that he's hiding now? 

Geralt steps a little closer to Jaskier, meaning simply to ask him, to push him until he can solve this mystery, but Jaskier flinches back from him, almost as if he's...afraid. Hunted. Geralt knows that look. He's seen it before, mostly in people who haven't realised that he has no interest in them, who have assumed that he's as much a slave to his body's innate urges as humans are. 

He sniffs the air, curious. He can't scent anything, not unless...

"Geralt? What are you doing?" There's a slight catch to Jaskier's voice, curiosity, fear, caution. 

Geralt steps a little closer, breathes in deeply, considers when he can smell. 

Realises. 

Reels back from Jaskier, one hand pressed over his mouth and nose, as if that will stifle the Scent. 

"Fuck." He snarls. 

Jaskier watches him, blue eyes gone wide and fearful. 

"You're in Heat." Geralt says, retreating to the other side of the fire. He can still smell Jaskier, even though he hasn't been able to all day, as if catching the first burst of his Scent has awakened him to it, but at least the acrid smell of woodsmoke works to smother it a little. 

Jaskier huffs. "Well, I thought that was obvious." He's still watching Geralt's every move, tracking him in a way Geralt has never seen him do before. He wishes, in a detached part of his mind, that Jaskier would display such watchfulness and alertness when they're on a hunt. But of course, the monster he's watching now is Geralt. 

"What- what are you going to to do me?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt _hates _the fear in his voice, the fear in his eyes. 

"Do _to_ you?" He repeats, making it a question. Surely Jaskier doesn't think... but of course he does. Why wouldn't he? 

"Yes, do to me!" Jaskier is blustering now, trying to cover his fear. It might have worked on someone else. It doesn't work on Geralt. "You're an Alpha _and _a Witcher, and I'm well...me. I'm not an idiot, I know how these things go, Geralt!" 

Geralt makes a considering noise. He knows what Jaskier means; the common belief that Alphas are powerless to resist Omegas in Heat and that they usually just take what they want, enslaved by their baser urges, but he has no intention of taking advantage of Jaskier like that. There's also a steady current of anger rising in his gut; why does Jaskier know this? Is it from experience? Who has taken advantage of him? The urge to hunt down the man, or men, who made Jaskier think that this is the way things have to be and feed them their own cocks temporarily overwhelms him, but it's quelled by another, calmer urge. 

He wants to go to Jaskier. He wants to go to him, and he wants to hold him in his arms until Jaskier smells like him, like _his, _so that no-one will ever dare to touch him again. 

Jaskier is still talking. "You know, you could at least state what your intentions are before you..." He breaks off, makes an obscene illustrative gesture with his hands, and winces, "You know." 

"Jaskier." Geralt cuts him off before Jaskier's rambling can overtake him. The bard is anxious enough as it stands. Geralt sighs. "I'm not going to do anything to you." 

Jaskier's words stutter to a stop. He looks at Geralt like he's grown a second head, or burst into enthusiastic laughter. "But you're..." He starts, "And I'm..." He gestures back and forth between the two of them, brows drawn together, perplexed. 

Geralt gives him a look that probably reads are more judgemental than he'd intended it to be. "Jaskier." He says, and his tone is chiding. 

Jaskier looks like he's thinking Geralt's declaration over, and he must come to a realisation, because the rapid, fearful breaths catch and hitch in a way that sounds almost like he's choking back a sob. 

"You know, I always knew you were toying with me, Witcher." He says, "Right from the very beginning. I knew those lingering glances, those... touches that lasted a little too long, I _knew _it had to be a ruse." He swipes the back of a hand over his eyes, smearing the tears Geralt hadn't even realised were brimming over his cheek, "I just didn't want to see it. I wanted you to want me, you know. I tried _everything_." A broken sob slips out between the words, "But it's fine. Just say you don't want me and go. I'll be fine." 

Geralt knows that Omega's emotions run high in heat, but this feels like more than that. This is something deeper. And it's something that maybe, just maybe, he can fix. If Jaskier will allow him. 

"Jaskier," He starts, "I..." 

Jaskier glares at him, but it's not all that fearsome, considering that his cheeks are red and blotchy from his display of emotion. "What is it?" He spits, "Is it because you're a Witcher, you can't want me? Because you're above pathetic, _human _emotions? Or is it just because I'm me?" With those words, he shoves himself up from his seat by the fire, whirls away from their little circle of light, and stalks off. 

"Jaskier, wait!" Geralt growls in frustration and gets up to follow him into the trees. Even if his enhanced eyesight couldn't detect him, Jaskier's leaving a Scent-trail behind him that Geralt wouldn't be able to miss. He smells like hurt and tears, desperation and lust. 

He catches up to Jaskier not far from their camp. The bard is stumbling, disoriented in the dark of the forest, and has been walking in circles. Geralt reaches for his arm, catches it and pulls him to a stop, the motion a little sharper than he'd intended it to be. 

"Wait." He says again, a little gentler this time. 

"I don't get it, Geralt!" Jaskier snaps, "Any other Alpha would have had me on the ground _hours _ago! Why not you? Why not?" He's breathless, furious, "Can you not smell me?" 

Geralt lets go of Jaskier's arm, trusting him not to run again, at least for a moment, and shoves a hand through his hair, pushing the long strands away from his face, "I can." He admits with a weary sigh. 

"Then...why?" Jaskier asks simply. 

"I won't touch someone unwilling." Geralt tells him, like that's the end of it. As far as he's concerned, it is. Jaskier will go back to their camp and see to his needs alone, and Geralt will patrol the outskirts, staying far enough away that Jaskier's Scent won't drive him wild before dawn, but close enough to keep anyone else who might smell him away. 

Jaskier lets out a sharp, frustrated sound. "Geralt, you are so....stupid!" Both his hands go to his head, tugging at his own hair, "Have you not been hearing me? I'm _not _unwilling!" 

Geralt shakes his head, "You're in Heat. You'd say anything." He's known Omegas to go to truly extreme lengths when their bodies are betraying them like this. 

"I was just telling you to _leave _if you didn't want me!" Jaskier's voice is steadier than it has been since Geralt caught up to him, "If I'd _truly _lost control of myself, would I have done that?" 

That gives Geralt pause. It's true, is Jaskier were properly Heat-Struck, he wouldn't have told Geralt to leave. And now Jaskier is standing in front of him, breathless and apparently willing outside of his Heat, and Geralt could be allowed to touch him, to fuck him, maybe even to claim him. 

He stops that thought in its tracks because that's not what this is. Jaskier has always been open that he doesn't hold with monogamy or anything like it, there is no way that Geralt will be permitted to claim him as his and his alone. 

But maybe, in the meantime, he can have Jaskier all the same. 

"Fine." He says. 

Jaskier stops. "Wait, really?" 

Geralt nods. "If you want to." 

Jaskier nods, several times, rapidly. It actually looks like it might be a little painful. There's a tentative smile creeping its way onto his face, replacing the fear and hurt like a slow sunrise. But then he sobers. "Geralt," He says, "Before we...I need to know. Do you actually want this? Me?" He takes two steps forward until they're chest-to-chest, all but touching, tips his head a little until they can feel each other's breath on their lips, until Geralt is so overrun by Jaskier's Scent that he feels like he's drowning. 

"Jaskier..." He starts. 

"Be honest." Jaskier tips his head a little further, bare millimetres from a kiss. 

"Yes." Geralt breathes.

"Oh, thank _fuck_." Jaskier dives into the kiss, enthusiastic and untidy and perfect. 

Geralt kisses in return, his hands finding the small of Jaskier's back and tugging their bodies closer together, closer than they've ever had reason to be. If Jaskier's Scent is strong, his taste is overwhelming. Jaskier's hands catch and tangle in his hair, tugging, and the sharp burst of pain makes a growl bubble up from somewhere in Geralt's chest, and Jaskier's answering whimper sounds like music. 

Geralt starts moving, not breaking the kiss because he doesn't need or want to, steering Jaskier backwards and guiding his steps until he stumbles and trips, falling backwards with a panicked shriek even as he grabs for Geralt's shirt in an attempt to arrest his fall. Geralt lets him grab and hold, and brings them both down safely onto the bedroll, his hands landing either side of Jaskier's head, bordering him into the embrace, where he'll be contained. Where he'll be _safe_. 

Jaskier lets out a breathless laugh, and his fingers are a little clumsy as he struggles with the lacings of Geralt's shirt. He lets out another whimper, this one more disappointed, when Geralt catches his wrists and pulls his hands away. It's replaced by a small noise of delight when Geralt undoes the lacings himself, and pulls the shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere away from both them and the fire. 

Jaskier reaches up for him, and Geralt leans back down again, guessing correctly that Jaskier wants more of those deep, possessive kisses. Jaskier's legs wrap around Geralt's hips and he starts rutting against him, almost as if he can't control his movements. 

_He can't, really. _Geralt reminds himself. Omegas in heat are far from mindless, but there are some things that are instinctive to anyone. And well, if that's what Jaskier wants, Geralt will give it to him, but he has a suspicion that that bard will want a little more than just that. 

Sure enough, Jaskier is soon struggling to keep kissing Geralt, and keep his hips moving, _and _attempt to disrobe. When he nearly elbows Geralt in the face, Geralt sits up again, breaking the kiss, and starting work on Jaskier's shirt. 

"Mmm, yes." Jaskier mumbles when the fabric is discarded and Geralt's hands drift lower, to his breeches. 

Jaskier does his best to help, raising his hips and kicking off his boots, and by the time he sheds the last of his clothing and Geralt is hovering over him again he's already wet and open and wanting in a way Geralt finds surprising, even through the haze of lust that is starting to encroach on his control. He's been with others like Jaskier, other Omegas, before - men and women - they're often drawn to his Scent - Alpha _and_ Unbonded - when their heats draw near, and there have been times he's indulged them, even if he can't give any of them the child they'd truly wanted. 

But Jaskier is different from them; his want isn't mindless. He looks up into Geralt's eyes, his own blown wide and dark, not just with the desperate need of Heat, but with something deeper, a more powerful, visceral desire. 

"Geralt," He breathes, "Please." 

He's not denying who he's with. There are been enough who have, who have mumbled only 'Alpha' when their minds are slowed with need. But Geralt already knows that Jaskier will be nothing like them. Jaskier isn't like anyone else. 

He isn't like anyone else when Geralt breaches him with one careful finger, meaning to ease him into it before both of them are too lust-dazed to take proper care. Others have cried out, loud in their pleasure or pain, but Jaskier just tips his head back, exposing his throat, and lets out a long, almost content sigh. 

"Yes," He slurs, "Yes." 

Geralt has barely pressed that first finger in, and already Jaskier is twitching his hips again, trying to take him deeper still. 

A second finger is greeted with more delighted sounds, and Jaskier twisting and writhing below him until blue eyes flash open, and a hand, fingertips calloused by lute-strings, catches the back of Geralt's neck and pulls him down until they're nose-to-nose. 

"Fuck me _now_." Jaskier all but snarls at him, "I'm done waiting." 

Geralt lets out a snarl of his own at that, bites at Jaskier's mouth until he's permitted entrance, even as he withdraws his fingers, wiping copious slick on the bedroll by Jaskier's hip. One part of him aches to lick his fingers clean instead, to _taste _Jaskier in another way, but there will be time for that later - he hopes. 

It is the work of only a moment to free himself from his breeches, pushing them down just enough that they won't be in the way. He doesn't have the patience right now to stand and negotiate his way out of them, not with Jaskier underneath him, writing and desperate and all his. 

"Turn." Geralt tells him, and Jaskier wastes no time in rolling over, pushing himself up onto his knees without having to be further prompted. He twists, looking back over his shoulder at Geralt, something of his usual wicked grin filtering into his expression between the want. 

Jaskier _keens, _long and loud, when Geralt lines the head of his cock up and pushes in, a slow steady movement that ends only when his hips are pressed against Jaskier's ass. 

"Fuck!" Jaskier manages, his whole frame shaking, and Geralt runs a soothing hand up and down his back. 

He means to wait, give Jaskier's body a chance to adapt, but Jaskier clearly has _no _intentions of letting that happen, even while Geralt is still trying to calm him, to calm his own rising lust, still holding onto control by the barest thread, Jaskier starts to move. It's small movements at first, aborted little half-twitches of his hips; he might not even know he's doing it, but that doesn't last long until he speeds, rocking back onto Geralt's cock, panting and gasping and moaning all the while, until Geralt knows he needs to take back control before it's taken from him. 

His fingers dig deep into Jaskier's narrow hips, and if he were thinking more clearly he'd be more careful, knowing that his strength will leave bruises there come morning, but he's not thinking clearly. All he's thinking about is Jaskier; how good he feels, hot and tight around Geralt's cock, his Scent drawing him in, heady and intoxicating and nothing like the oppressive, overly-sweet Scent of every other Omega Geralt's even been with. 

Jaskier's panting breaths spill over into sobs when Geralt takes control of the rhythm between them, fucking him harder and faster than the pace Jaskier had set. The fast-fading, still-coherent part of Geralt's conscious mind suggests that maybe he's going to hard, but the sounds spilling for Jaskier's lips suggest pleasure, rather than pain, the sobs mixed with pleas for more, harder, deeper, and sounds that might be Geralt's name. 

Jaskier twists, trying to arch upwards, and one of Geralt's hands comes down on the back of his neck, pushing him down until his cheek is pressed to the rough blankets, his hips still raised to meet Geralt's thrusts, and when he reaches for his cock, Geralt doesn't stop him. Why would he? He wants to see Jaskier come undone. 

He doesn't have long to wait; barely three strokes of his hand and Jaskier is shuddering and, his cries scaling up into one long, wordless sound as he spills onto his hand and the blankets. If Geralt had thought his Scent was strong before, now it's even stronger. It makes his dizzy with want, but he slows his thrusts as Jaskier slumps fully onto his stomach, breathing hard. He doesn't want to hurt him. 

Only for Jaskier to twist to look over his shoulder, "Don't _stop, _you overgrown idiot." He tells Geralt, breathless and with a delighted spark in his eyes. 

_He looks beautiful like this_, Geralt catches himself thinking, looking down at the graceful curve of Jaskier's back, his dishevelled hair, his cheeks pink with exertion and sex. That kind of thinking is dangerous, Geralt knows, so instead he does what Jaskier wants, uses his grip of slim hips to pull him back up onto shaking hands and knees, and redoubles the strength of his thrusts, setting a truly punishing pace. 

Jaskier whimpers and moans and outright wails, but he doesn't pull away, or tell Geralt to stop, just keeps pushing back to meet his thrusts, even though he must be oversensitive to the point of pain. But if Jaskier tells him to keep going, Geralt is going to keep going. He'll do anything for Jaskier. 

Jaskier is babbling underneath him, profanities and praises and pleas spilling from his lips in equal measures, incoherent mumblings about how big Geralt's cock is and how good it feels inside him and some other nonsense about how Geralt is going to ruin him for everyone else. 

It that last part that makes Geralt growl low in his throat - the thought of anyone else touching Jaskier, let alone getting to fuck him like this. The possessive urges he's been fighting to keep at bay finally overtake him, and he bends forward to sink his teeth into Jaskier's shoulder, a mere breath away from the place that would bind them together far more permanently, and he tastes blood even as Jaskier bucks and writhes under him, around him, voice reduces to a hoarse whine. 

"Mine." Geralt growls into his shoulder, teeth stained red, and Jaskier whimpers, nods, mumbles something that sounds like acquiescence and agreement, mixed with Geralt's name. 

"Yours." He eventually manages, his voice rough, as Geralt spills inside of him, and then his voice scales up into another long, harsh cry as his orgasm washes over him. 

Jaskier collapses fast enough that Geralt doesn't quite follow him down in time, and his cock slides out of him, leaving behind slick and seed tricking from Jaskier's wet, puffy hole. Jaskier makes a faint whine at the loss, and tries to roll over. He can't quite manage it, so Geralt settles beside him, moving his loose limbs until Jaskier can curl up alongside him, his head pillowed on Geralt's shoulder. 

"That was..." Geralt starts. 

"Yeah." Jaskier agrees, nuzzling a little against his neck. His eyelids are already drooping, and he clumsily tangles the fingers of one hand with Geralt's, his grip surprisingly strong. 

Geralt knows they should talk about this. he knows whatever conversation they need to have will doubtless be awkward and uncomfortable, probably for the both of them, but with Jaskier fast falling asleep in his arms, slick and sweat and come drying on both of their skin in the cool of the night, he can't bring himself to really care about that. That's a bridge they can cross in the morning. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, they weren't fucking done (or should that be weren't done fucking?), so here's another chapter! If the first couple paragraphs seem familiar, it's because they were originally the end of chapter one, but I moved them because they made more sense here.

It's late morning by the time Jaskier wakes, sunlight filtering through the tree canopy overhead and into their little camp. Geralt is already awake and out of the tangle of bedrolls, blankets, and clothing that they'd slept in the previous night, assembling what supplies they have into breakfast - or lunch really - in the hope that some food will keep Jaskier's strength up. He's not worried about himself; he can go on for days with little or no food, but Jaskier can't, even on a regular basis, which this isn't. He doesn't need his enhanced hearing to know when Jaskier wakes, because it's with a confused noise and a panicked shuffling of blankets when he finds himself awake and alone. 

"Geralt?" Jaskier calls, looking around himself frantically until he catches sight of the Witcher and relaxes, slumps back against the pack he'd used as a pillow the previous night. He stretches, arms sweeping high in an almost graceful arc above his head, winces, and puts a hand to the bite mark on his shoulder, fingers coming away with flakes of dried blood on their tips. 

"You bit me." He says, eyes a little wide. It's only slightly indignant.

Geralt makes an apologetic sort of sound. "Sorry?" He offers. He's not, really, but if Jaskier wants him to be, he will. 

Jaskier presses his fingers back against the bite, even though it must hurt to do so, and a smile draws the corners of his mouth upwards. "I'm not." He decides firmly, "But you might be if you don't get back over here _right now_." 

Geralt puts the food aside, somewhere safe and off the ground, and crosses their camp, back to Jaskier. He's careful to kick off his boots before he kneels into the soft tangle of Jaskier's makeshift nest, knowing that even though it's not a true nest, that Jaskier hadn't actually made it, that it's still likely important to him, and he wants to be respectful of that. 

Jaskier immediately crawls into his lap, kicking the blankets away from himself to reveal his total nakedness - and arousal - to straddle Geralt's thighs; buries his face against his neck, breathing in deeply. He makes a happy little humming sound that Geralt feels more than he hears, nuzzling against his neck. This close, it's impossible for Geralt to escape his Scent, and he finds himself once more all but overwhelmed by that warm, spicy, inviting smell. He smooths his hands up and down the line of Jaskier's spine, just to have something to do with them. 

Jaskier sighs softly, and there's a sadness to it. "I thought maybe..." He starts. Stops. Buries his head against Geralt's chest. 

Geralt waits, not stopping the soothing motions of his hands on Jaskier's back. He's patient when he needs to be, which is often in his line of work, and Jaskier has never been good with long silences. 

"I thought maybe you'd gone, in the night," Jaskier admits. He keeps his eyes downcast, avoiding looking up at Geralt as if he is ashamed, "You know, left me." 

Geralt makes a noise that is equally hurt. It's not a whine, but it's low and sad and it comes from somewhere deep inside of him. He doesn't even realise that he's let it slip until Jaskier looks up at him, expression guilty and eyes a little damp. Surely Jaskier doesn't think so little of him to think he'd run in the night? 

But then, what reason has Geralt given him to think otherwise, some treacherous part of his mind points out. Geralt might have held out a lot longer in the face of Jaskier's Heat than other Alphas could have - or would have tried to - but he'd succumbed to his wants in the end. The bite on Jaskier's shoulder might not be one of Bonding, but it's still there, because Geralt had still lost control. He'd _hurt _Jaskier. He's proven he can't be trusted. Of course Jaskier thinks the worst of him. 

"Sorry." Jaskier mumbles, trying to pull away, out of Geralt's arms, "I know you didn't want this." 

Geralt nearly lets him go, because this is just Jaskier coming to his senses and deciding once and for all that he doesn't want to be with him, but no, that's not what this is. This is Jaskier trying to decide _for _Geralt, to tell Geralt what he should be thinking, and Geralt won't take that. 

He can't stop the sharp, amused sound that is suspiciously similar to a laugh from escaping him. He seems to be making a lot of unintentional sounds around Jaskier lately, but Jaskier has always tested his control in new and exciting ways. 

Does Jaskier _still _think that Geralt doesn't want him? After everything? The words they'd exchanged before Geralt had taken him to bed? And then the act itself? 

"That's not true." He says, to the top of Jaskier's downturned head, "Look at me." He catches Jaskier's chin and tips his head up so that Jaskier _has _to meet his gaze, "I wouldn't have said yes last night if I didn't mean it." 

Jaskier huffs out a sharp, bitter laugh. It doesn't have any humour in it. "It's okay." He says, in a tone that says that it isn't, "I'm not some blushing idiot on my first Heat. You don't have to lie to me to make me feel better." 

Geralt growls, low and threatening in the back of his throat, "I'm _not _lying." He all but snarls, and he doesn't realise until Jaskier's Scent shifts, going from the low warmth of Heat to a sharper spike of arousal and willingness, that he's pulled some of the Alpha into his tone. Another transgression to add to the list then. 

The whimper that Jaskier makes, the way he buries his head against Geralt's neck again, heartbeat already speeding, and how his hips start rocking in needy, arrhythmic movements confirms it, and when Jaskier looks up at him it's with eyes that are lust-blown, only a thin ring of blue around the dark of his pupils. 

"I take it back," He mumbles, already starting to slur, "I believe you." 

"Damn right." Geralt mutters, but he doesn't move to still Jaskier's movements. He knows he _should. _He knows he should end this now, should tell Jaskier that it's only going to end with them both getting badly hurt, and that Jaskier doesn't know what he's asking for, but it's a little harder to remember why he'd thought it was a bad idea in the first place with Jaskier in his arms like this. 

Jaskier sits up a little, drapes his arms around Geralt's neck in a loose, easy movement, rocking his hips harder, and Geralt's hands settle on his waist almost without him thinking about it, for fear that Jaskier will fall from his lap. When Jaskier smirks down at him, sharp and delighted, Geralt has a moment of realisation that he's just fallen into a trap. This was likely what Jaskier had wanted all along, and when Jaskier dips his head to kiss him, long and slow and deep and hot, Geralt knows it. 

But he also can't find it within himself to complain. If this is the sort of trap that Jaskier wants to lay, Geralt will gladly fall into it again and again. 

Jaskier's breathing is coming faster now, harsh breaths and needy little pants and he tries to hide in the kiss that isn't all that much of a kiss anymore, just their mouths sliding together as they move in rhythm with each other. Jaskier tries his best to reach for the lacings of Geralt's shirt again, but with the way they're pressed together, he can't get his hands between their bodies. 

He makes a frustrated, distressed noise, and Geralt feels something unpleasant lurch inside of him. He doesn't like the feeling, and he doesn't like Jaskier being in distress, he needs to _fix _is. He knows it's his Alpha urges coming out again, that need to protect and guard and make sure his Omega is safe and well cared for. 

Wait. 

_His _Omega? 

Fuck. 

"Geralt..." Jaskier whines, still fighting with the lacings. 

Geralt leans back to hush him, stills Jaskier's scabbling hands with a gentle grip on his wrists.

"Shh." He tells him, his tone as gentle as he can make it. 

"Don't you 'shh' me!" Jaskier grumbles back, but it doesn't have as impressive an air as it normally would, given that he's panting and writhing in Geralt's lap as he says it. 

Geralt huffs softly, presses an absent kiss to Jaskier's forehead. "I've got you." He says, and there's no reason for him to say it, but there's something in him that is calling out to protect, to soothe, to calm. 

"I'd-ah! I'd hope so!" Jaskier is trying for affronted, but still missing the mark. His fingers, when they drop to the lacings of Geralt's breeches, also miss, fumbling against the thick fabric clumsily, but with enough intent that Geralt has to grit his teeth to not press up into the contact. This isn't about him. 

Jaskier makes another of those heartbreaking, frustrated whimpers, and when he looks up again, his eyes are hazy, and the expression on his face is an all but pitiful pout. 

"Geralt," He begs, "Please, I need-" 

Geralt kisses him, partly to quiet the flow of words before Jaskier gets properly started, because he's holding onto control by a bare thread, and if he keeps listening to Jaskier's pleas, he's going to lose his grip on it; and partly because he just likes kissing Jaskier. 

Jaskier pulls away after only a few heartbeats. "Geralt, while this is all _very _nice, if you don't touch my cock right _now, _I swear I'm going to...do something drastic!" 

Geralt kisses him once more. "Can't have that." He says, mock-serious. 

Jaskier narrows his eyes, gives him a hard look, or what passes for one from a Heat-dazed Omega at least. 

"Trust me?" Geralt can't stop himself from asking. 

"Always." Jaskier replies immediately. 

Geralt's hands are strong and steady on his hips as he persuades Jaskier to turn, until he's positioned, thighs spread wide over Geralt's lap, back pressed against Geralt's chest. From there, Geralt can easily wrap a hand around Jaskier's cock, smearing the fluid he's already leaked over the hard length, keeping his movements slow and steady at first, easing Jaskier into it. 

"Oh, I take it back..." Jaskier moans, for the second time that morning. "You're a genius, Geralt." 

Geralt is going to remind him of this the next time he's being stubborn and infuriating. 

He noses along Jaskier's neck, breathing in his Scent until he feels like his entire being is permeated by it, until all he's really aware of is Jaskier; the weight of him in his lap, the warmth of him thrusting into his hand, the harsh breaths and the little cries he can't smother filling his senses until all that matters to him is Jaskier, Jaskier, _Jaskier_. 

He doesn't even realise he's sunk his teeth into Jaskier's other shoulder until Jaskier throws his head back, giving him more room, and lets out a high, thready moan, one that turns strangled near the end as Geralt bites harder and sucks at the spot just a little below where he knows Jaskier's instincts want him, hoping that it's enough to distract him from what he _could _be asking for. 

It's not something Geralt has ever felt capable of giving anyone, but if it had to be someone, it would be Jaskier. And if Jaskier asks him now, he's not sure he'd be able to say no. He's not sure he'd want to. 

"Fuck, Geralt!" Jaskier's voice is wrecked and breathless, small, desperate sounds coming in sharp bursts as he thrusts into the tight circle of Geralt's hand, single-mindedly chasing his release. Geralt encourages him, kisses and sucks at the livid mark on his pale shoulder and tightens his grip on his cock just a fraction, listening to Jaskier's pants and cries to guide him. 

When Jaskier comes, it's with a high-pitched cry, hips jerking erratically as he spills his release over Geralt's hand and lap, and his own stomach. Geralt eases him through it as gently as he can. pressing soft kisses to the new bite mark on his shoulder, halting his strokes only when Jaskier whimpers and pulls away from his hand, oversensitive. 

He settles, body limp, back into Geralt's arms, clearly not inclined to move, even though his legs spread wide over Geralt's thighs is likely uncomfortable. Geralt doesn't mind him there though, he just holds Jaskier tighter and nuzzles and kisses at his throat, breathing in his Scent, the smell of arousal dampened a little by orgasm for now. Geralt can smell Jaskier's release, too, where it trickles between his fingers and spills onto his thighs, hot and salty and even more intense than the scent of Jaskier's Heat alone is, overwhelming and wonderful. 

Jaskier still doesn't seem like he wants to move, and Geralt enjoys the chance to just hold him without the pretense of it being anything else. He hopes it's something he might be permitted to become accustomed to. He settles his grip around Jaskier's waist a little better and just breathes, feeling more comfortable than he can remember ever feeling, considering they're out here in the open, in the middle of the forest, largely undefended apart from Geralt's senses. 

Jaskier's stomach makes a loud grumbling sound, and Jaskier can't contain a weak snort of laughter. It reminds Geralt of what he'd been doing before Jaskier called him back to bed with him; how he'd been _trying _to prepare something for Jaskier to eat. 

"Move over." He says, gruff but gentle, using his grip on Jaskier's waist to help shift him out of his lap and back into the blankets, Jaskier's own movements still uncoordinated and shaky. 

Jaskier pouts a little at him all the while as Geralt untangles himself from the dishevelled remains of the bedroll and goes to pick up the food; bread and some dried fruits and nuts, and the waterskin. 

"You should eat." He says, offering Jaskier the makeshift meal. 

Jaskier accepts the meal, immediately taking a huge bite out of the bread, and Geralt, satisfied that he's going to eat it, sits back down beside him. 

"You bit me again." Jaskier says around the mouthful of bread, "No, don't apologise," He heads off the apology Geralt is already preparing this time, "I liked it, just...you know you could do it properly, right?" 

Geralt blinks. Jaskier isn't possibly offering...

"I uh, I want you to." Jaskier adds, eyes downcast now, staring at the blankets pooled in his lap. "If _you _want to." 

Geralt surges into Jaskier's space, knocking aside the remains of his food, because he _has _to kiss Jaskier, right now. Jaskier lets out a small sound that is a lot like a squeak, all the breath knocked out of his as Geralt takes his face in both hands and kisses him, hard, to stop the things he's feeling from bubbling over, because Jaskier just admitted to wanting a Bond-Bite. From _him. _

He pulls back before Jaskier can run out of breath and rests their foreheads together, eyes closed. 

"I want to." He admits, "But I can't. Not now." 

Jaskier sighs, disappointed. 

"When you're not in Heat, we'll talk about it." Geralt promises, and it doesn't come with the uneasy feeling that making such a promise usually would. He's not worried about this conversation-to-be. It's Jaskier. How could he be? 

"Fine." Jaskier says, a little huffy about it still, even with a light in his eyes that promises mischief, "I'll hold you to that, Witcher." 

Geralt smiles, and settles back into a seated position by Jaskier's feet. He wouldn't expect anything less from Jaskier; not when he's like a dog with a bone when he gets an idea in his head - stubborn beyond all belief and common sense. 

"Geralt?" Jaskier is watching him, a concerned line between his brows, "Aren't you going to eat anything?" He asks. 

Geralt shakes his head, "I'm fine." He doesn't mention that they're running a bit low on food, that he'd given Jaskier all but the last of what they have. Jaskier needs it, now more than ever; with his Heat burning its way through his body, he needs the energy to keep his strength from failing. Geralt can go days without food.

"Hmm." Jaskier considers this, "You could always eat me, then." He says with a leer and a wink. 

"Really?" Geralt asks with a low chuckle, eyebrows raised, "That was terrible."   


Jaskier laughs too. "Alright, not my best work, I admit." He looks Geralt up and down, his gaze gone predatory again, and his Scent shifts, "But can you really blame me? I'm a little bit-"  


Whatever words he'd been considering are cut off in a startled yelp as Geralt grabs him by the ankles and pulls him down to lie flat on his back on the blankets. While he's still startled and pliant, Geralt grips his narrow hips and moves him - gently - until Jaskier understands and rolls over onto his stomach, shuffling up until his weight is supported on knees and elbows, arching his back. Presenting himself to Geralt, consciously or unconsciously. 

It's a view that Geralt would happily stop and admire for hours. Jaskier's skin is pale, covered in a light dusting of dark hair. He's got a softness to him like this, but even without touching, Geralt knows that there is muscle there as well, hidden beneath the skin, currently held tight and anticipatory. Geralt does touch then, smooths a hand over the curve of Jaskier's ass and can't hold back the soft, indulgent laugh when Jaskier presses back into the contact immediately. 

He settles his palms on Jaskier's ass, and manages to only devote a few slow heartbeats to admiring how well it fits there, in his hands, then presses his thumbs into soft flesh until the most intimate part of Jaskier's form is bared to him, shining and already all but dripping with his slick. 

"Get _on _with it." Jaskier complains, glaring at Geralt over his shoulder. He doesn't sound like he's suffering from anything but a little impatience though, "Geralt, I swear to - oh _fuck." _

Jaskier's threats die off into a curse and a gasp as Geralt leans in and licks a wet path across his hole, finally, _finally _getting the taste he's been wanting since he first got Jaskier underneath him. 

Jaskier tastes a lot like he smells, warm and spicy and sweet. So sweet. Other Omegas have tasted sweet too, but in a cloying and overwhelming way, almost sickly sweet, and Geralt has never enjoyed it even a little, as much as he has tried to. But Jaskier tastes..._perfect. _

"Okay, was not -ah!- was not expecting _that_." Jaskier pants, hands fisting in the rough fabric of the blanket, "No, don't _stop_." He adds, when Geralt pulls away, looking up at him in concern, "I'm just...learning new things about you today apparently." 

"Hmm." Geralt grunts, and returns his attention to the task at hand. His world narrows back down to Jaskier; his panting breaths and the taste of him, the feel of warm, slick muscle loosening under his lips and tongue, until he can press one finger carefully inside, and almost immediately after, two, twisting and curling then until Jaskier's cries get louder, and his hips start to move, pressing back against Geralt's mouth and fingers. 

Geralt has already decided that he'd spend hours here if he could, senses filled with Jaskier; taste, Scent, sounds, the feeling of his clenching around Geralt's fingers and thrusting back against them, but Jaskier's cries are growing impatient and desperate, and as much as Geralt would enjoy drawing out his pleasure to the point of irritation, he's not cruel. 

If Jaskier really meant what he'd said about wanting to stay with him, there will be time enough for that later. 

So he redoubles his efforts, twists and presses with his fingers, licks and sucks at Jaskier's hole, focused only of wringing more of those sounds out of him, with bringing him pleasure, desperate and dizzy with it, ignoring his own insistent arousal because he wants to make sure Jaskier gets what he needs. 

"Fuck!" Jaskier swears desperately, Geralt can hear the way he's clawing at the blankets, short nails scratching on the rough fibres, "Geralt!" Jaskier begs, breathless and wanton, voice rough from crying out, "Please!" 

Geralt would stop, and tell Jaskier that it's alright, that he's got him, but there's nothing that will stop him from making Jaskier come for him right now. He goes about this task with the same single-minded determination that he has when he stalks a monster, intent on his goal. Only this time his goal is orgasm, not death. 

Jaskier shifts his weight under Geralt's mouth, and it's different to before, not merely a mindless push back against pleasurable sensation, and Geralt realises that Jaskier has a hand on his cock, moving it fast and desperate. He presses deeper with his two fingers, curling them on a new angle, looking for the sport that he knows from an experience with a particularly tenacious woman in a brothel will drive Jaskier wild - even wilder - with pleasure. 

He must find it, because Jaskier all but screams, muscles locking tight against Geralt's fingers and beneath his lips. It's not a true Lock, his fingers not as thick as a Knot would be, and Geralt finds he is able to slide them back out easily as he sits up. 

Jaskier, sprawled out on his stomach, makes a strung-out whine of protests, once more glaring over his shoulder in Geralt's general direction. 

"You should've left them in." He grumbles, "I wanted..." He stops, cheeks red from more than just exertion and orgasm. 

"I know." Geralt tells him, because he does. Jaskier wants what every Omega in heat wants. He wants a Knot. "Later." He promises, and he knows he shouldn't. Even though it doesn't mean as much as a Bond-Bite does, it still feels...important, somehow. 

"I'll hold you to that one, too." Jaskier mumbles, rolling over properly, "Come here." He adds, reaching for Geralt and pulling him down alongside him until he can curl against his shoulder, sated and loose-limbed once more. Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier, and they lie together in the messy tangle of blankets beneath green leaves and blue sky. 

There are still things they need to talk about; Jaskier's desire for both a Bite and a Knot among them, but Geralt finds that they can wait, just a little longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around! There's one more chapter, which will feature bathing in the river, a proper nest, and knotting, to come when I finish my uni finals in a couple days!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, a bath in a river, a nest, a knot, and an actual conversation about the future!

A while later, Jaskier stirs. 

"I feel thoroughly disgusting," He announces, poking at the fluids on his stomach, now half-dry and tacky, matting the dark hair there, and wrinkling his nose, "I can't imagine how bad I must smell to _you_." He adds, leaning a little harder against Geralt's shoulder, just a brief, solid press of their bodies together. 

"Hmm." Geralt grunts. He doesn't say that Jaskier smells amazing to his senses, both Alpha and Witcher alike. Yes, he smells like sweat and sex and come, Heat and slick and need, but he smells like _them, _their Scents mingles on him, _in _him. Jaskier smells like _his, _and that means he smells like the most wonderful thing on the Continent. 

"Yes, well." Jaskier sniffs faux-primly, "You Witchers are used to being filthy and stinking, it's an occupational hazard, so I hear." He stretches, "I, however, am accustomed to a certain level of comfort." 

Geralt huffs a short laugh at that, because they've just fucked on literally a forest floor, with only a few blankets under them, and Jaskier is talking about being accustomed to _comfort. _He presses a kiss against Jaskier's sweat-damp and mussed hair, "There's a river." He offers. 

"Good." Jaskier twists around and up to kiss Geralt's jaw, "Come bathe with me." He stands, still entirely naked, and offers Geralt his hand. 

Geralt ignores it, just for a moment, in favour of pressing his lips to the jut of Jaskier's hipbone, just because it's there and he can, and breathes in, inhaling the Scent of them both on Jaskier's skin. 

"You can't distract me just because you don't want to take a bath, Geralt." Jaskier insists, "Come _on." _He insists, but his fingers tangle in Geralt's hair, just for a moment, like he intends to direct his mouth someplace else. 

Geralt considers it. If Jaskier wanted him to, he would. He'd stay right here, on his knees, use his mouth to bring Jaskier's cock back to hardness and bring him off right there, and he wouldn't feel shamed for it for even a heartbeat. 

But Jaskier's hand is gone from his hair before Geralt can do anything further than think about it, and he's pulling Geralt up after him, down the grassy slope towards the sound of rushing water. He doesn't even bother to stop and put his boots on, content to make the journey on bare feet. 

However, when he dips one bare foot into the clear, rushing water, Jaskier lets out a muttered curse. "It's cold!" He complains, indignant. 

"Did you expect it to be warm?" Geralt asks, stepping past him into the water. It _is _cold, but he's more than accustomed to this discomfort; bathing in rivers and streams had been the norm for him for so long when most towns wouldn't suffer a Witcher to stay in their inns, even if he'd had the coin to pay them, or had recently rid them of a monster or other horror. So he's used to it, and he takes a few slow, careful steps into the river, testing the footing and current. The water is swift, but the current weakens towards the middle, and the riverbed is mud and rounded stones. 

Jaskier splashes into the water somewhere behind him, complaining loudly about the cold. 

"You're the one who wanted a bath." Geralt points out, looking back over his shoulder at him. "Come here." He adds. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but wades out towards him. The moment he's within range, Geralt grabs his arm and pulls him close against his side. If Jaskier asks, it's because he's tired and Heat-dizzy, and Geralt doesn't want him falling and getting swept away, but in truth, Geralt just likes Jaskier being near. And this way, their Scents will wash downstream together; anyone who happens to think to come their way because they can smell an Omega in Heat will think differently when they smell the Alpha alongside him. 

Jaskier clings, one arm slung around Geralt's waist, draped comfortably against his side. Geralt feeling him like a brand against his skin, hot to almost the point of burning in the freezing water. Yet somehow, he feels _right. _

He also feels still, and when Geralt glances at him, it's to find blue eyes watching back, and lips quirked up into a lazy smile. 

"Are you going to get clean, or...?" Geralt asks, leaving the statement open because he doesn't want to say 'staring like a lovesick fool', even if that's what Jaskier looks like he's doing, for fear of scaring him off. As if Jaskier could think Geralt doesn't want him after all they've done. 

"Hush, I'm savouring." Jaskier tells him firmly, leaning a little heavier against his side, "Let me have this." 

"I didn't say that I wouldn't." Geralt points out, amused, "But you _are _the one who dragged us out here." 

Jaskier snorts and flicks some water at him, and Geralt momentarily considers ducking Jaskier in petty revenge, but he doesn't want to upset Jaskier that much, his instincts telling him _no, don't, _so he settles for flicking water back at him instead. 

Jaskier shudders dramatically and presses against him again. 

"Cold!" He complains, a whining tone in his voice, even though his eyes are sparkling. Despite his words, he scoops up a double handful of water and brings it to his face to begin washing away the sweat. 

Geralt, as ever, takes the more direct route, and just ducks himself down under the surface, coming back up with water streaming from his hair and Jaskier rolling his eyes at him. 

They pass the rest of their bath in close contact, pressing against each other, hands running over each other's bodies in thinly-veiled caresses. But soon Jaskier is shivering with the cold of the water, and Geralt nudges him gently towards the riverbank again. 

They wander back up the hill to their camp, dripping and cool in the mid-afternoon sunlight. At least it's not a cold day, Geralt is thankful, or else he'd be more concerned about building a fire until Jaskier has the sense to put some clothes on. 

Jaskier goes straight back to the mess of blankets, packs, and probably various bodily fluids that had been their bed, and starts rifling through the tangle of fabrics and leather like he's searching for something. Geralt leaves him to his shuffling and goes in search of his own clothing. 

He finds his breeches in a crumpled heap; pulls them on swiftly and casts about for his shirt. 

"Jaskier," He turns around to ask, then trails off, because the sight of Jaskier, draped in the black fabric and nothing else has all sorts of things running through his mind, many of them enough to render him speechless. Something about seeing Jaskier wearing his clothes, even just a shirt, triggers all of those possessive instincts he's been trying to keep controlled, his need to have and hold and own and claim flaring to the surface again. 

Jaskier looks up at him for a moment, then down at the shirt, a little guiltily perhaps. He reaches for the lower hem as if he's about to pull it over his head and take it off again, and Geralt can't help but let out a low growl. 

"Leave it." He says, because that's all he can manage, can't put his feelings about Jaskier in his clothes into words. 

Jaskier smiles, all sweet and soft, and Geralt turns back to go in search of his boots, but not before he sees the way Jaskier ducks his head, presses his face into the fabric, and breathes in deeply. Geralt knows that Jaskier is breathing in his Scent, knows that it will be calming his Heat a little to inhale Alpha Scent, at least for a short while. 

Geralt finds his boots, and settles into the motions of checking the camp, building up the fire again, even though the day won't start to cool for a little longer yet. But at least if he builds the fire now, he won't have to pull himself away from Jaskier later if it burns down. 

He wants to make things as comfortable as he can for Jaskier. They should be doing this somewhere nicer. Jaskier deserves better than a few hurried fucks in the forest, on cold ground where he can't even build a proper nest. He deserves somewhere with a real room, with a bed, and blankets and pillows and sheets to add to a real nest, somewhere with food and wine and a hot bath so Geralt can take care of him properly. Jaskier deserves so much more, and so much better. 

"Stop it." Jaskier says, and when Geralt turns back to look at him, he's met with an all-too-knowing look. 

"Stop what?" 

"Stop doing your dark, brooding thing." Jaskier tells him, with the same air he'd once said _I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood, _so many years ago. 

"I'm not-"

"You _are_." Jaskier is sat in the middle of his nest, built from their blankets and bedrolls and saddlebags, wearing nothing but Geralt's shirt, eyes dark and wide and wanting. Even with the campfire between them, Geralt can smell him, can smell his need. 

"Geralt." Jaskier extends a hand in his direction, "Stop brooding. Come to bed." 

Geralt is moving before he's really understood the instruction, knowing only that he's been called, and he should go. Jaskier wants Geralt by his side, and if Jaskier wants it, Geralt will make sure he has it. 

He drops smoothly to his knees at the edge of the nest, cautious and careful not to damage the structure, and looks up at Jaskier. 

"May I come in?" He asks, because he's not entirely devoid of manners, and he knows how this goes. It's Jaskier's nest, not his. He's supposed to be invited in. 

Jaskier laughs, "You'd better." He says, in a tone that makes it sound almost like a threat, gaze heated. 

This close, Geralt can _only _smell the lust rolling off him. But it's more than that, more than just Heat and lust and want and need. There's something else, something he smells on Jaskier all the time, but something he's starting to understand is more than just his baseline Scent. In someone else, Geralt would call it love. He doesn't want to dare to hope that's what it is on Jaskier. 

He walks, a little awkwardly and still on his knees, into the nest, and Jaskier is there to meet him, pressing their lips together, slow and warm and gentle at first, but soon he's licking his way into Geralt's mouth, making a slew of breathless, needy sounds, his hands catching and tangling in Geralt's damp hair. 

"I just want to make this abundantly clear," Jaskier says, pulling back so he can look into Geralt's eyes, "I want you. All of you, this time." 

Geralt knows what Jaskier is asking for. Jaskier wants his knot, and Geralt will let him have it, will give him what he wants because Geralt wants it too. It's the only way he can claim Jaskier without it being permanent - or close to it. 

"Okay." He says, dipping his head for a kiss that turns deep and wet almost as soon as their lips touch. Jaskier is all impatient need, and Geralt can't deny him, even if he'd wanted to. 

Jaskier crawls back into Geralt's lap, a position he seems to be very fond it, and Geralt's hands slide easily up the back of his thighs under the too-loose shirt, settling him into position. Geralt is still wearing his breeches of course, he can't fuck Jaskier without taking them off, but they have time. They don't need to rush, despite what Jaskier's desperate whimpers and the way he's already rutting against Geralt's lap like he can fuck right through their clothes say. They're not under attack, there's no-one waiting to chase them out of town, and nothing stalking them in the forest. With Jaskier in his arms, Geralt feels the closest thing he's felt to peace in a _very _long time. 

Jaskier rocks against him, and Geralt can feel the hot, hard line of his erection even through thick breeches and the draped fabric of the overlarge shirt. He shifts his hands inwards, meaning to probe gently at Jaskier's hole, just to see how wet he might already be, if he's sensitive yet, how he'll react. He's not expecting Jaskier to keen softly and press back against his fingers, taking two of them inside himself with barely a struggle, still loose and open from the previous rounds of desperate fucking. 

"Oh, _fuck._" Jaskier gasps, trying to rock back onto Geralt's fingers like he's desperate to have something, anything, inside of him. Geralt can't deny how much he likes seeing that need, knowing that Jaskier is desperate and incoherent because of _him, _because he wants _him_. 

"In a minute." Geralt promises, and it takes Jaskier a breath to understand his joke, and when he does, he huffs out a breathless laugh. 

"Oh, so _now _you discover a sense of humour." He mutters, and Geralt can feel the way his insides tighten around his fingers, "If only a sense." 

Geralt's retaliation is to curl his fingers, knowing where he's aiming now, and Jaskier gasps, his grip on Geralt's shoulders tightening, short nails digging into skin, bright pinpricks of pain enough to sharpen Geralt's focus without breaking through his control, enough to make him press his face into Jaskier's neck to breathe in his Scent and growl, low and possessive, in the back of his throat. 

With a soft whimper, Jaskier goes relaxed and pliant in his arms, melting against Geralt's chest. He's still clenching around Geralt's fingers, but he's not pressing back against them, not seeking more. Waiting. Waiting to be told what to do. To be ordered. 

That doesn't sit right with Geralt. He remembers what Jaskier had said, what feels like a lifetime ago, about how he knows how these things go. Geralt doesn't want that. He wants Jaskier to be his, but he still wants Jaskier to be himself. 

Wait. 

He wants Jaskier to be his? 

But of course he does. How could he not, when Jaskier is so beautiful and foolhardy and stubborn and kind; has always been so determined to follow Geralt anywhere he's going, not put off my ill-temper, threats, and even violence. It's been a long time since anyone stuck around to really _see _Geralt, but Jaskier has. And not only that, but he's kept coming back, time and time again, even after all others have fled. 

So yes, of course Geralt wants Jaskier to be his. 

He presses his fingers deep, against that same spot, twists and spreads them, testing the resistance of slick muscle, working Jaskier open with a deliberate, single-minded focus, intent only on making sure Jaskier will be ready to take him without it hurting. He's never _really _wanted to hurt Jaskier, and especially not here, not like this. 

"Geralt," Jaskier mumbles, his open mouth mostly smothered against Geralt's neck, "_Hurry up_!" There's a desperate crack to his voice on the last word. 

"Be patient." Geralt warns him, letting the Alpha into his tone just a little, because Jaskier is pushing things, rushing, and Geralt wants to take his time with this, wants Jaskier all but out of his mind with need and pleasure before he moves things along. he wants this to be _good _for Jaskier, not just another rough fuck to sate his need. Not when Jaskier has already said that he wants so much more than that. 

Not when Geralt is going to give him that. 

"Geralt..." Jaskier mumbles again, and this time it's accompanied by a press of teeth, not a real bite, more of a warning, or perhaps an encouragement. 

With a gentle sigh, Geralt pulls his fingers from Jaskier's hole, careful not to do it too quickly. Jaskier still makes an aggrieved grumbling at the loss, but it's not pained, and before Geralt can decide how to move them next, Jaskier's quick hands are reaching for the lacings of his breeches, already working them open and getting a hand inside to wrap around his cock. 

Geralt groans at the contact, and for a moment he lest Jaskier touch him, because it's a relief to finally be free of the constricting fabric, but when Jaskier tries to shift himself further into Geralt's lap, raising himself up like he fully intends to get Geralt's sock inside of him right now, Geralt sets his hands on slim hips and holds him back. 

Jaskier whines. 

"Slow down," Geralt tells him, "Let me take these off, first, for fuck's sake." 

"You don't have to." Jaskier argues, but he lets Geralt slide him out of his lap this time, and doesn't move while Geralt stands to slide the breeches off. 

Jaskier dives on them immediately and adds them to the nest, tucking them away half under a blanket. Then, he shrugs out of Geralt's shirt nad adds that, too, arranging everything just to his liking before turning back to Geralt, who is settling back into a seated position in the middle of the nest. 

"Come here." Geralt says, and Jaskier is in his lap before he can say anything else. 

Jaskier's hands are warm on Geralt's cheeks as he holds his face still to kiss him, and Geralt takes the kiss and returns it with equal fervour, parting his lips to savour the taste of Jaskier's mouth, to swallow his soft gasps and moans and whimpers. 

"Come _on, _Geralt," Jaskier grumbles, nipping and biting at Geralt's lower lip between words, "Stop tormenting me!" 

"No." Geralt says, even as he wraps one hand around the base of his aching cock and guides it carefully to Jaskier's hole. 

When Jaskier feels it there, he goes quiet, letting out only a single, needy whine before pressing his hips downwards, like he's trying to take all of Geralt's cock in one go. Geralt's hands on his hips are the only thing that steady him, hold him back from trying it, let he hurt himself in his over-enthusiasm. 

"Slowly." Geralt warns, pressing soft kisses to Jaskier's cheek, his brow, his lips, "Take your time." 

"No." Jaskier echoes Geralt's earlier statement, and before Geralt can tighten his grip and stop him, he sinks the rest of the way down in one movement, until his ass is flush against Geralt's thighs. 

"_Fuck_!" They both gasp at the same time. 

Geralt's fingers dig deep into Jaskier's hips, pressing bruises into pale skin that Jaskier will wear for days yet, and Jaskier's nails leave crescent-moon marks in Geralt's shoulders that will be healed before sunrise. Jaskier's head is tipped forward, his forehead pressed against Geralt's, and it's a simple thing for Geralt to press their lips together, to kiss Jaskier's mouth open, to kiss and bite at his lower lip until the catch in Jaskier's breath goes from pained to pleasured again, until he's distracted from and adjusted to the stretch of taking so much at once. 

The catch in his breathing scales up into a sharp cry when Geralt starts to move, shifting his hips in the smallest movements he can manage with his rapidly eroding control, slow, shallow thrusts that still have him gritting his teeth against the urge to go harder, faster, because Jaskier feels amazing around him, hot and tight and slick; the feel of him, the Scent of him all but overwhelming, steadily wearing down his control. 

Jaskier is moving now, rolling his hips to meet Geralt’s thrusts, bracing his hands on Geralt’s shoulders to push himself down. It's his attempt to control the pace, to control this entire encounter, and the Alpha in Geralt growls that this isn't how it's supposed to be. But Jaskier has never been traditional, and Geralt silences that part of himself and instead kisses Jaskier again, intent only on making him feel good; even now, his own pleasure is secondary to making sure Jaskier gets what he so desperately wants - or needs. He can wait. Jaskier can't. 

Jaskier is talking now, mumbling more pleas and praises into Geralt's mouth, disjointed phrases about how big is he and how much Jaskier needs him and wants him, all wrapped up amongst barely coherent begging for _more, _and _harder, please Geralt. _

There isn't much more Geralt can give from here, the angle isn't enough for him to really give Jaskier what he wants, and he's about to suggest that they pause to rearrange themselves a little before they're both so completely gone, but Jaskier's hands press into the centre of his chest, and Jaskier shoves at him, making a needy, upset sound in the back of his throat when Geralt doesn't immediately move, and Geralt _understands. _

He lets Jaskier push him flat onto his back, plants his feet flat on the blankets, settles his hands on Jaskier's hips, and pulls him roughly down onto his cock at the same moment as he thrusts upwards, into that tight, wet heat. 

Jaskier _wails, _head tipped back like he's howling at the open sky above them, throat bared deliciously for Geralt, so beautiful and tempting, but so far out of his reach at this angle. It's a good thing too - Geralt aches to set his teeth to soft skin and bite, to carve out his claim on Jaskier so that no-one will ever touch him again.

"Fuck, Geralt!" Jaskier gasps, "Fucking _yes!" _The rest of what he is trying to say is lost in a pitching, desperate moan, ragged at the edges like Jaskier is barely holding onto coherency.

But he's still talking, can still form the few odd words, so Geralt redoubles his efforts, using every ounce of Witcher strength and stamina to fuck Jaskier into breathless, moaning incoherency, while still grasping for the fragile threads of his own control. He _will not _allow himself to lose control before Jaskier is on his Knot. He can't afford to, doesn't want to risk losing control before it's in, can't risk pushing it in without taking proper care. He's got the impression that Jaskier perhaps likes a bit of pain, but this would be more than a bit, and not something he'd willingly inflict on anyone. 

"Geralt..." Jaskier's voice is wrecked and breathy - he won't be able to sing for a few days at least - when he finally starts to beg again, "Please, I need...ah!" He keeps interrupting himself with little cries, his head tipped back again, exposed and beautiful.

"I know." Geralt tries for soothing, but he's breathless with exertion, and it comes out sharp, through grit teeth, "Soon."

"_Now_." Jaskier argues, rocking his hips harder, practically bouncing up and down on Geralt's cock, trying to take control of their rhythm. Geralt digs his fingers into Jaskier's hips and forces him to slow, keeping the pace steady.

"Soon." He growls out again, "When you're ready."

"I'm ready _now!" _Jaskier all but whines, in the same tone he uses when he's complaining to Geralt about sleeping in the forest another night or being left behind while Geralt's on a hunt, "I'm not going to break!"

Geralt isn't sure he believes that, but his control is hanging on by a thread so fine it might as well be spider-silk, and he can _feel _the Slick all but dripping from Jaskier's hole onto his thighs as he fucks him. He's as ready as he's going to get without Geralt stopping to stretch him further, and he can already tell that Jaskier _is not going to let him do that. _

In the face of the inevitable, Geralt chooses the only option he has that will keep his control intact and won't badly hurt Jaskier.

"_Slowly_." He cautions, pulling all the Alpha he can into his voice, willing Jaskier to understand, to obey him this one time. He keeps his grip on Jaskier's hips solid as he guides him down, feeling the resistance of slick muscle around the thickness of his knot.

Jaskier is silent, eyes wide and dark, hands clenched into fists as he breathes in short, sharp pants. His gaze remains locked with Geralt's, unblinking until the resistance finally gives way, and Geralt sinks the rest of the way into him, then his eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against his skin.

The tight, hot, all-encompassing pressure is enough to drag a long, harsh groan from Geralt, the sound rough and raw and ruined, and Jaskier's answering cry is a low, breathy sigh, and his internal muscles fluttering and clenching erratically is enough to finally, _finally _break Geralt's hold on his control. He _can't _anymore, can't hold himself back from taking what is his. Even if Jaskier is the one sat astride him, Geralt is inside him, all of the way now. He can't pull back out enough to get a proper rhythm going, can't thrust as hard as his instincts are telling him to, but Jaskier, beautiful, clever Jaskier, is rolling his hips steadily, Geralt's cock hitting him not hard but _deep_ now.

It’s a punishing rhythm that Geralt probably couldn’t sustain for long on his own, and that Jaskier definitely can’t, but it doesn’t seem like they’ll need to.

"Geralt..." Jaskier groans, and his hands find Geralt's chest, nails scratching over old scars, finding and scraping over a nipple, sending another spark of pleasure to add to the growing inferno, "I'm gonna..." Jaskier can't get the words out, his warning interrupted by a sharp cry that is almost a scream as he comes, spilling his release over his stomach, some even reaching his chest. He doesn't stop moving, hips jerking sharply, almost as if the movement is beyond his control, and it's that erratic, clenching movement that pulls Geralt over the edge after him, fingers digging hard into Jaskier's hips as pleasure explodes and his world whites out.

Geralt comes back to himself with Jaskier a sticky, panting mess, flopped forwards, almost boneless where he's draped over Geralt. They're locked together still, won’t be able to separate for a while longer, Geralt knows. Jaskier, slumped against his chest, is tracing idle patterns with a fingertip between scars, humming quietly, something Geralt feels more than hears, vibrations resonating between them.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, although Jaskier is humming, so of course he is.

“Yeah,” Jaskier mumbles back, grinning up at him a little hazily, “You?”

“Fine.” Geralt mumbles back. They’re silent for a few beats, then Geralt asks, “What do you want to do now?”

Jaskier looks up at him, “Stay here with you.” He says, “Not like I can go anywhere.” He adds, with a clench of already-locked muscles that makes Geralt gasp and shiver, and a cheeky wink.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Geralt chastises, but there’s no heat to it, “I meant…after.” He doesn’t _want _to ask, but he has to. He can already smell that Jaskier’s Heat has broken. He’ll start coming fully back to himself soon, if he hasn’t already. He might start wanting something other than what he’d said he’d wanted earlier. He might stop wanting Geralt.

“After my Heat?” Jaskier asks.

“Hmm.” Geralt confirms.

Jaskier makes a considering hum, goes back to his tracing, “Stay here with you. Hunt monsters. Sing songs. And-” He cuts himself off with a sigh, his gaze focused intently on an unscarred patch of skin that has absolutely nothing remarkable about it.

“And?” Geralt prompts.

“Be yours.” Jaskier admits, voice soft. Even from this angle, Geralt can see the blush that blooms on his cheeks, the way the tips of his ears go pink. It figures that Jaskier can talk of any manner of sex acts, but the moment an honest want for commitment comes up, he blushes and stammers like a virgin. “If you’ll have me.” Jaskier looks up at him, eyes damp with cautious hope.

“Already done that.” Geralt points out, and his joke has the desired effect, Jaskier snorts out a startled laugh. “Just…” Geralt starts, then stops. He should just shut up. It’s not worth risking it all just for one little thing. He can handle sharing Jaskier, surely, if it means getting to keep him.

Something twists in his gut, telling him that he can’t share Jaskier, that Jaskier is his and no-one else’s, but he tries to ignore it. He’ll share Jaskier is it’s that or lose him entirely. He _will. _

“Don’t do that.” Jaskier says, gaze intent, “What is it? Talk to me Geralt.”

It’s that tone that proves his undoing, that and the concern, the hurt, in Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt won’t let himself be the cause of Jaskier wearing that expression.

“I don’t think I can share you.” Geralt admits, finally.

This time, Jaskier’s laugh is breathless and relieved, “I won’t ask you to. I promise.” He says softly, “I meant what I said, about being yours, and you being mine. I don’t need anyone else if I have you.”

Geralt has to kiss him, even if the angle is awkward and it involves some uncomfortable bending to be able to do it. He feels Jaskier’s lips curl into a smile against his mouth before Jaskier kisses back.

“Next time,” Jaskier promises, leaning their foreheads together, “We’re doing this someplace with a real bed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Oh my gosh! This was supposed to be a little one-shot fic about Geralt and Jaskier negotiating Jaskier going into Heat and them getting together because of it, but I guess it got a little out of control? Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk about gay shit with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_demerite)


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